


same old sad soliloquy

by polyphobiaa



Category: Just Roll With It (Podcast)
Genre: Death, Gen, Insomnia, Introspection, Resurrection, ahahaaha ahahaahaahaahahahaha (dies), im just thinking a lot, its all for fun though yknow we have a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:56:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyphobiaa/pseuds/polyphobiaa
Summary: a sleepless meditation on what it is to be alive and not.
Kudos: 24





	same old sad soliloquy

Most nights, Sylnan finds himself laying awake in the dark. Long after everyone else has fallen asleep, he stares up at the ceiling and is alone with his thoughts. Once in a while he’ll hear someone make noise and go completely still, pretending to sleep, but nobody has ever really woken up. It’s just Sylnan on his proverbial night shift, keeping a watchful eye on his own mind.

He’s not used to having a body.

He didn’t realize it when he was with Katherine - how much different it is to be… alive, versus not. With Katherine, it didn’t matter. Quite simply, it was the least of his concerns. But also, even in the moments he was alone, it didn’t feel different. Maybe she had helped it not feel different, helped that transition move a bit slower, just so it wasn’t jarring to him? He doesn’t know. He’s not entirely sure if he can ask her.

There was no slow transition in coming back.

It felt like… an electrical shock, but without the pain. Just currents surging through his whole body at once. A feeling the body is not prepared for or built to face, that almost nobody ever experiences. Having your soul launched back into your corporeal form at mach fuck is weird, and nobody really thinks about it.

Except Sylnan.

He thinks about it a lot now.

He breathes again.

He didn’t before - well, he did, sort of? But all those times when he wasn’t aware of it, he just… wasn’t. He didn’t need to. He had no pulse, and now he does. He can feel it sometimes, and he doesn’t particularly know if it feels good or bad, just… like itself. Like a pulse, like blood flowing. One of those things that comes with a body. With being alive.

You know, living and stuff.

His limbs still feel stiff from weeks of disuse. At least, he assumes it’s just from not using them. He doesn’t really know how rigor mortis works, but he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to go away. But he hadn’t really moved at all other than being dragged around, and muscle memory disappears a lot faster when you’re dead and gone. It’s a little bit like when you’ve just woken up and haven’t stretched, except that it doesn’t stop.

He stumbles a little more than he’d like to on what he thought was simple sleight of hand.

He feels his wounds clearly on those long, long nights. He remembers where they were, feels a dull ache, remnants of a blade in his chest that is no longer there. He wishes he could stop feeling fragments of it, wishes he could be back to himself, wishes he could feel alive or like a person and be completely and utterly back to normal and nobody would worry, or wonder.

He wishes he wouldn’t worry or wonder either.

But he does.

On those long, long nights, he does. A lot. More than he wants to. More than he lets on to anyone. He doesn’t want to give them more to deal with. Hell, a man just died. There are worse things in the world.

But it’s… weird.

He sleeps less, and he thinks a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this about a month ago and never posted it. oops! here it is! just roll with it, baby, let's get it on


End file.
